


The Self-Publishing Subculture

by aunt_zelda



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Embarrassment, In-Universe RPF, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: Rufus Drumknott eyed the report on his desk. The clerk who had brought it was one of the newer hires, and had walked with the air of one who’d been put up to a difficult task as a hazing ritual of some kind. Likely it was something scandalous or infuriating or both. With a sigh, Rufus opened the folder and began to read.
Relationships: Rufus Drumknott/Havelock Vetinari
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Fic In A Box





	The Self-Publishing Subculture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yelp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yelp/gifts).



> Loved your prompt for the in-universe RPF!

Rufus Drumknott eyed the report on his desk. The clerk who had brought it was one of the newer hires, and had walked with the air of one who’d been put up to a difficult task as a hazing ritual of some kind. Likely it was something scandalous or infuriating or both. With a sigh, Rufus opened the folder and began to read. 

_”You have been teasing me for weeks and I can no longer endure it. See what a state you’ve brought me to?” the tyrant grasped himself firmly, demonstrating his arousal plainly. “And, as you are my secretary, it is your duty to see to my needs.”_

_Despite his eagerness to please, the secretary trembled before the tyrant’s turgid member. “My lord, that will never fit. I beg you, have mercy.”_

_“I am not a man given to mercy. Now, serve me, as you serve this wretched city.” The tyrant gestured downwards suggestively and smirked._

_His secretary could not conceal his own arousal, straining against his fitted trousers. He sighed with contentment as at long last, he sank to his knees. His head swam with lustful thoughts and desperation to do good service to his lord and master. “Yes, my lord, I am yours to command.”_

_”I hired you for more than your skill with a pen. I hoped to benefit from your talented tongue. Prove your worth.” The tyrant unbuttoned his trousers and_

Rufus, face now burning with mortification, closed the folder abruptly. 

So that was the source of the hazing then. Some tawdry drivel written by people with overactive imaginations was in circulation. It was shocking if you weren’t warned beforehand, but Rufus had read far more gruesome reports in the past. This was something he could easily forget, given time and more reports to read. 

He did not pass the report on to his Lordship of course. There was no reason to bring such an inconsequential and poorly-written piece to his attention. Lord Vetinari had enough to be dealing with the City without knowing somewhere, someone was daydreaming about his intimate life. 

Not that Lord Vetinari had much of an intimate life. He slept little, ate less, and seemed inclined to fill moments of quiet with crossword puzzles. 

Rufus handled all of his Lordship’s appointments. He had never scheduled one for the Seamstress’s Guild. 

Shaking his head, Rufus set about his work for the rest of the day. 

-

Havelock noticed something was off with his secretary instantly. He was accustomed to Drumknott’s careful steps and measured movements. The slight hesitancy in his gait, the brief aversion of his eyes, the lingered tone of voice on a word when he spoke, and Havelock knew something was very wrong. 

He had never known Drumknott to fall ill. Excepting the instance a few years ago when an imposter had stabbed him, Havelock was unaware of Drumknott taking any time at all to recuperate from illness or injury. 

“Are you quite alright Drumknott?”

His secretary’s eyes widened in a flash of shock, before Drumknott’s face settled into his usual impassive mask. “Yes, my lord. Thank you for, ah, asking.” He seemed wrongfooted by the unexpected turn in conversation. 

Havelock squinted, but found no clue to indicate an illness or any other cause for his secretary’s odd behavior. “Very well. Do not let me detain you.”

Drumknott nodded and left the office. Havelock noted his walking speed was slightly faster than usual returning to his desk outside. Curious. Very curious indeed. 

Unbeknownst to Havelock, his secretary was taking a brief moment in the nearest secret stairwell to compose himself from a rare and unexpected surge of anxiety. 

-

The folder was taunting Rufus. 

He ought to have burnt the damn thing but it was too late now. He’d set it aside in a drawer – locked of course – for reasons that he was struggling to justify to himself. In case of what, exactly? In case a deranged writer stormed the palace bent on forcing their fantasies into reality? Such preparation would require warning the guards of such a person, investigating to obtain their description, explaining why they’d been added to the list of dangerous individuals, and worst of all informing Lord Vetinari himself of the reason. 

No. None of those options appealed to Rufus. He was being foolish. Worse, he was distracted from his work. He would burn the file at day’s end and that would be the end of that nonsense. 

Unfortunately when he burnt it, he had to glance at the pages again. 

_”My lord, I am yours to command.”_

Rufus shook his head as if that would dislodge the torrid words from his memory. He burnt the pages. He went home. He insistently thought no more of them. 

His tossing and turning in bed, beset by “lustful thoughts” as the horrible pages had described, were not something Rufus tried to dwell on. 

-

Havelock frowned when Drumknott entered his office the next day. His secretary did not appear to have slept well. 

“Drumknott, are you ill?”

“What? No, my lord!” Drumknott looked appalled at the suggestion, either that he would work while sick and endanger others at the palace, or perhaps that he would take ill at all.

Perhaps a different approach would yield answers. Havelock reached for the social graces others were often so fixated upon. “Then, is something perhaps troubling you?”

To Havelock’s bewilderment, Drumknott’s face turned pink. 

“Nothing of consequence, my lord.” Drumknott said in a clipped and perfectly detached tone of voice. He set the daily schedule on Havelock’s desk, nodded stiffly, and retreated from the room at haste. 

\- 

“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all I know!” The clerk quavered under Rufus’ steely gaze. “There’s personal printing presses these days, home kits. A couple hundred people have the capacity to print these little story collections. Tracing it would be nigh-impossible.”

Of course it would. And of course the damned printing press was behind all this. His Lordship had long been against moving type, and Rufus was beginning to understand why. Intimately. 

“If it makes you feel any better, sir, they can’t possibly have a large readership.” The clerk added hopefully. “A dozen people, maybe less even. It’s very niche. A niche of a niche really.”

“There’s more of this … this twaddle?” Rufus asked, voice strained. One deranged writer was bad enough, but several unleashing their private fantasies on the world in lurid detail?

“Oh yes sir!” the clerk looked relieved that the subject was shifting to something more general. “There’s the officially published ah, adult books shall we say. Then there’s self-published content that can’t get published officially. Small press releases, highly specific subjects. Then there’s stories about those stories. Then there’s things like this, which are even smaller and more secretive, because they’re about real people.”

Rufus blinked. He supposed that many people in the city had the time and leisure to write, and that some of that writing would statistically be about erotic matters. To have the subculture laid out for him was another thing entirely. “Are they all about his Lordship?” he asked, lowering his voice. 

“Oh not at all. A great deal is about members of the Watch, the Postmaster, various Seamstresses, a few about those three at the Times, and even some about the Wizards.”

“The wizards?!” That was simply too much for Rufus to handle at once. He held up a hand. “Forget I asked. Please. Let us never speak of this again if possible.”

The clerk nodded eagerly, visibly relaxing now that the meeting with their boss was over. 

Rufus headed back to his own office musing on the new information. The idea of a single scribe was troubling enough, but an entire organization of them, exchanging stories with one another? Imagining Rufus himself in compromising positions with his superior? Imagining the specific size and shape of Lord Vetinari’s … well, areas that were not for public viewing, to say the least. 

He had thought, perhaps naively, that Ankh-Morpork could no longer surprise him. After all his years working for the Patrician, Rufus had thought he had seen enough that nothing could rattle him or his understanding of the citizens. 

Rufus had been proven wrong. That was all. That was the reason for his distraction from his job and fixation on these ridiculous words. That was the reason for his troubled rest the night before. Now that he had his answer, surely he would sleep easy again. 

Eight hours later, Rufus was once again proven wrong. 

\- 

When Drumknott arrived the next day, looking even more exhausted, Havelock was incensed. Something was wrong and Drumknott was not being forthcoming about it. 

Havelock had to solve this mystery. Whatever was troubling his secretary was impacting his work and apparently now his health. If Drumknott would not speak to him, after implied and direct questioning, Havelock had other methods of ferreting out the truth. 

The office of dark clerks froze as Havelock entered their sanctuary. It was rare that he visited personally, and usually heralded some great matter or disciplinary action. 

“Who has been delivering Drumknott his reports this week?” Vetinari scanned the room. 

Furtive glances and a grim nod indicated a wide-eyed young clerk at the far end of the room. The clerk was visibly trembling by the time Havelock reached their crowded desk. 

“Has there been any unusual content in the reports this week that might have impacted Drumknott personally?”

“… sir?” the clerk gulped. 

“Anything at all. Perhaps something you thought innocuous at the time. Think back.” Havelock folded his hands and waited. 

The clerk flicked through files and papers hastily. Havelock heard the straining of ears from the room to listen to what was being discussed. 

“Ah, the only thing, my lord, would be, well, this.” The clerk indicated a folder with several papers within. 

Havelock picked it up and opened it. The clerk winced. 

A quick scan of the page to Havelock’s keen eyes revealed exactly why this material would have been particularly troubling to Drumknott, and why he had not been informed about it. 

“I see. I will remove this from your charge.” Havelock said, taking up the additional folders marked with the same symbol. 

“Yes, my lord.” The clerk’s face was turning deep red. 

Havelock left the office for his own, folders in hand. Turning the corner he heard an audible sigh of relief from the clerks he’d left behind. Smirking to himself, he returned to his office for some research. 

Scanning the documents was a revealing look into the intimate lives of Ankh-Morpork’s more imaginative citizens. Assignations with disgraced Black Ribboners seemed to be a highly popular topic, which nevertheless indicated a promising move of social integration for vampires into the city’s social strata. There was a lively epic about the adventures of an unlicensed thief and a young Watch officer, pursuing each other across rooftops at night and having highly improbable couplings in alleyways. (Vetinari very much doubted that the author of that one had ever been in an alley in the Shades if they considered it a location fit for human intimacy.) The stories at the top of the stack though, were Havelock’s answer. Several citizens were entranced by the concept of himself and his secretary engaging in inappropriate activities together at all hours of the day and night, often in positions that would be difficult for limber young men to achieve much less men of their respective maturity. 

_The Patrician swept his desk clear with one powerful hand. “Errors are unacceptable. You know that.”_

_His secretary trembled under that steely gaze. “Yes, my lord.”_

_“It seems you have not taken it to heart. I must instill it within you. Bend over the desk.”_

_“My lord, please –”_

_“Bend over the desk or I shall have you dismissed.”_

_His secretary bent over the desk, palms flat on the expensive wood._

_“Count off. If you can still do that much correctly.” The Patrician sneered, bringing up his wicked cane._

It was unlike Drumknott to be scandalized by sensitive subjects. Yet this had driven him to distraction and even pursued him home after his working hours. It was a puzzle to be sure. Havelock mused on it for the rest of the day, as he completed other tasks and engaged in meetings, advanced projects, and sent messages to various figures across the continent. 

A troubling theory emerged. Perhaps it was not the content itself, but the emotions depicted. Perhaps Drumknott in reality – not the Drumknott on the printed pages – had feelings for Havelock. Perhaps the man was mortified not by the expression of strangers’ fantasies, but his own. 

The more Havelock considered it, the more it made sense. Drumknott had never demonstrated affection or interest in anyone else in his time working for Havelock. All his waking time was devoted to Havelock, caring for his life and activities. It was natural that intimate feelings could develop, and then kept hidden and unspoken when they could no longer be shrugged off as a fleeting fancy. 

There was one question left to Havelock: how to proceed. He suspected, though did not know for certain, that his secretary harbored unrequited feelings for him. Until recently these had not proved an impediment to his work ethic. How could Havelock remove the distraction and ensure Drumknott was a capable secretary once more? 

The ideas laid out in highly descriptive purple prose called out to him from the folder on his desk. Those were a ridiculous mockery of real attraction and honest intimacy. Vulgar musings from people who likely never dreamed their words would be seen by more than a chosen few who shared their views and encouraged them to keep writing. Such hobbyists were not Havelock's concern(1), but they had distressed his secretary and he took personal affront to that. Drumknott’s job was demanding, and Havelock did not want him to find the prospect of working in the palace too overwhelming. 

Havelock considered the issue, turning it over in his mind.

-

Rufus approached the restaurant with an unusually heavy heart. He had not felt dread like this since the attack and accusation of Lord Vetinari for attempted murder and embezzlement. His lordship seldom dined outside the palace. This was clearly a special occasion of some sort. 

He was being dismissed. That was surely what was happening. His recent failings at work had been too significant. His long years of service had earned him a modicum of privacy and a distance from the palace, but still he would be dismissed. 

Lord Vetinari was dressed as usual, modest black and lacking the ornamentation one might expect of a tyrant who ruled one of the wealthiest cities in the world. 

Rufus did his best to eat the meal before them. The restaurant was empty, cleared out by guards in preparation of their arrival. Every clink of fork and knife on the plates seemed to echo in the space. 

“Drumknott,” Lord Vetinari began. “You have been a loyal, hardworking secretary for many years.”

Rufus nodded. Here it came. 

“However, recent events have caused me to see you in a new light. A different light.” Lord Vetinari fixed Rufus with a steady look. 

Rufus held his gaze. 

“You have feelings for me. Intimate feelings.”

It was not a question. Rufus opened his mouth to deny it and found he could not lie. Not to his lordship. Not here, not like this. Those damnable stories had brought forth secrets he’d denied for far too long. And now it would cost him his position.

It did not occur to him to wonder how his lordship knew. He was _Lord Vetinari_ , and he had many more and darker clerks than Drumpknott, and other means of his own. 

“While a strange process of discovery, the end result was this revelation, so I cannot complain.”

Rufus could not speak. He shrugged vaguely, imagining his comfortable, predictable life of decades more service, now fading away. 

“Did you imagine yourself in a hopeless situation?” Lord Vetinari asked. 

This was cruel, even for his lordship. “Sir.” Rufus managed to talk at last. “If you would do me the courtesy of dismissing me without further speculation I would very much appreciate it.” 

With a shock he realized he had raised his voice. It was the first time in these many years he had done so. Dread sank into the pit of his stomach. 

“Drumknott – Rufus, you misunderstand me entirely.” A brief sliver of a smile flitted across Lord Vetinari’s face. “I am not in fact opposed to the idea of a relationship.”

Rufus narrowly avoided dropping his wine glass. 

“You must however be aware of certain stipulations, should we proceed with such a step.” Lord Vetinari laced his fingers together. “You would need to move into the palace for your own safety. You would need to allow a certain modicum of oversight to your errands and life after work hours, a guard following at a distance for example. We could not be publicly seen together engaging in usual activities for a couple. Behind closed doors, there are many things I am unwilling to engage in, even for a relationship.” Lord Vetinari’s face twitched slightly. “As for the ah, activities outlined in those stories I found in the report –”

Rufus felt his face heating. 

“Some of them I would be quite pleased to try, with you. Others, I am less interested in.”

“I could,” Rufus offered, mouth dry. “I could make a checklist?”

Lord Vetinari smiled. “Excellent idea. Organization is key for these things I am told.”

Rufus nodded, taking a steadying drink of the wine. 

Lord Vetinari reached out and grasped Rufus’ hand. Tracing his thumb over Rufus’ wrist, he murmured “I see why so many of those stories featured you being bound. I should like to try that if you are amenable.”

“… yes. Very amenable.” Rufus sighed with relief and anticipation. 

“Excellent. I look forward to detaining you, to our mutual satisfaction.” Lord Vetinari raised his glass for a toast.

Rufus raised his glass to complete the gesture. 

-

Miss Emmeline Stoatbush of Cockbill Street, Mx. Finley Grey of Brookless Lane, Mr. Cornelius Comb and Miss Arietta Waverly of Dolly Sisters, and Mx. Morgan Umberax of Levy Walk received anonymous gift packages on their birthdays over the next year. They contained sheaves of expensive paper, well-mixed ink, and tools for repairing home press kits. Each thought the others in their writing circle had provided the gifts, touched by the generosity of their friends. The sense of community brought about by their writing and exchanging of stories flourished in the coming years.

**Author's Note:**

> [Footnote] (1) Unlike, say, the Extreme Sneezing Society, a hobbyist group which often did significant structural damage to either themselves or, more relevantly, any municipal or other building in which they rented meeting space, and sometimes open-air parks.


End file.
